


A Prayer That I Don't Dare To Be

by seamusdeanforever_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Companion Piece, M/M, POV Dean Thomas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seamusdeanforever_archivist/pseuds/seamusdeanforever_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By beingothrwrldly.</p><p>Companion piece to A Different Kind of Prayer from Dean's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prayer That I Don't Dare To Be

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Cora: this story was originally archived at [Seamus/Dean Forever](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Seamus/Dean_Forever), which I opened in 2002, and which was closed in 2005 when the server that hosted it was closed. To re-open the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2015. An announcement was posted to OTW media channels, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Seamus/Dean Forever archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/seamusdeanforever/profile).
> 
> ***
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 
> 
> uthor's Note: This is a companion piece/remix to belladonnalin's A Different Kind Of Prayer. She broke my writer's block with a glance from Dean, which prompted this story. Also, the passage quoted is from Genesis 4:14.   
> Also, much love to belladonnalin and emyuhlie, for the betaing.   
> Warning: Mention of character death.

The day Neville was killed was the day Dean began to think, just maybe, they werenÕt going to win this thing, after all. That was the day he quit believing in God, because why would someone so powerful and knowing and good allow something so terrible and unfair and bad to happen?

He decided, then, that his parents Ð his mum, his dad, and even his grandmum Ð had lied to him all the years theyÕd gone to church services. He started to learn to forget all of the prayers, all of the hymns, all of it. He washed his hands of the church, because he figured that the church had washed its hands of him.

Because why was he alive and Neville not, unless he was being punished for his sins?

+++

In the days after Neville was killed, in the weeks, months - _months_ after he was killed - it became easier to forget, easier to ignore. Dean was submerged in artwork, sketching and painting until his fingertips were numb, his clothes stained with pastels and charcoal. Everything but red, because red made him think of Gryffindors and blood, and those things made him remember.

HeÕd perfected the art of forgetting, and he wasnÕt about to take the easy way out by allowing himself to remember. It was as though he had built a wall inside himself, dividing his pain from his everyday thoughts, and he had to be careful to keep the wall from crumbling. Being careless could prove disastrous, and Dean was just not willing to make that mistake.

So he kept his mouth shut, kept his smiles to himself, kept his eyes on his sketchbooks and his artwork, and tried to make everyone believe that he was fine. That the war, NevilleÕs death, _everything_ , hadnÕt been the final straw, that he wasnÕt questioning anything and everything.

And, for the most part, it worked. When they were in the dormitory, the silence was heavy and dark, and Dean let it wash over himself like a warm bath. Ron had his family to worry about, his sister to take care of. Harry, absorbed in his own pain and anger, rarely came back to the room when anyone else was there, and when he did, heÕd climb into bed and draw the curtains tight around it, never speaking and never looking at any of them. Silent.

And there was Neville, who was gone, but Dean didnÕt think about that. It was the four of them now, the Gryffindor boys, all for one and one for all, even though they were all on their own, fending for themselves. They were in this together, except for when they werenÕt. It was as though Dean were in a room with invisible walls and invisible doors between the beds, where he could see everything and hear nothing.

But Dean also didnÕt think about that, and it was easier to not thing about that, because then there was Seamus. Seamus, whose eyes would light up like candles every time he told a story, and Seamus, whose smile was one of the most comforting things Dean had ever seen. Seamus, who always knew how to cheer anyone up, no matter how serious or solemn the situation, and Seamus, who didnÕt know how to fix everything that had happened since You-Know-Who had come back to power.

So Seamus began to try a bit too hard to make Dean laugh, and when that failed miserably, he began to try to make Dean smile, just smile, but that had also failed, quite dismally. Dean hadnÕt meant to snap at him, to hiss, ÒCanÕt you see that this isnÕt the time?Ó in the middle of dinner one night, but he did, and Seamus had stayed away for a few days.

It just that the wall inside of him had gotten stronger as the days Ð weeks, _months_ \- passed, and Dean had finally begun to forget how to let anyone in.

After a bit of time had passed, Seamus began to look at him as if to say, ÒI can be serious, too,Ó and then Dean had almost felt like smiling.

But he just couldnÕt figure out how to do it, without letting the wall crumble and break.

+++

On the first anniversary of the day Neville was killed, Seamus began praying in the dormitory.

Dean hadnÕt seen Harry for a full day, and RonÕs mum had owled him about an hour earlier, just before dinner, to tell him to keep a close eye on Ginny, because thereÕd been more attacks and more death, and Dean had stopped listening before Ron had crushed the parchment in his fist.

He wondered if this was a sign from God, a sign that it had been one year, and one day, and one hour. One, one, one. Was it a prophecy? Dean hated to think of prophecies, but he had to be cautious, had to be careful. Had to think of all the possibilities.

So Seamus began praying that night, and Dean pretended to be asleep when Seamus knelt next to the bed, his back to Dean.

On the second, third, and fourth nights, Dean pretended to be asleep. Seamus murmured the prayer, his words slow and deep and drawling, and Dean closed his eyes and traced the words in his head as Seamus said them. He couldnÕt remember when heÕd forgotten to forget.

He traced them, over and over after Seamus had climbed into his own bed and after Harry finally came back and after Ron sent off an owl to his mum, and they brought on thoughts of meanings and the bible and hymns and everything, and it painted a picture in his head. A picture, vivid with memory and bright with music and words, and Dean felt more like an artist than he ever had.

He didnÕt realize that the wall had crumbled until he realized that he was thinking of these things because of Seamus, and his blood ran cold when he couldnÕt get the thoughts out of his head. Seamus was making him remember, making the wall crumble, and what was _that_ supposed to mean?

 _Punishment_ , he thought, shivering, and the word threaded itself inside of the hymns and twisted into the words, winding over the passages and under the verses, until Dean was shaking and wide awake.

 _This is why you have to forget_ , Dean ordered himself firmly. He resolved to forget, to make this the last time, and fell into a fitful sleep, his dreams replaced with nightmares and filled with Neville, broken and bloody, and flashes of light Ð green and red and white and blue Ð and Seamus, reciting the Fatima Prayer to Dean, his eyes wide and unblinking and _blank_ , and Dean woke up shivering.

+++

On the fifth night, Dean had forgotten to forget, again, thinking of the dreams from the night before and shivering at the thought of SeamusÕ eyes, and when Seamus knelt to begin the prayer, and Harry had silently climbed into bed and Ron had stared at the ceiling, because his mum had owled him back and they couldnÕt find his older brother Ð Dean looked at Seamus.

It was fleeting and sneaking and hidden, but at that moment Seamus had looked up at him, and their eyes locked for a moment before Dean remembered the wall, and an unknown voice rang in his ears.

_Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me._

And he looked away, his cheeks burning and his head spinning, and Seamus said, ÒDean?Ó and he shook his head, no. _No_ , he thought firmly, _no._

He climbed into bed, turning on his side and away from Seamus, and there was silence for a moment before Seamus began praying. The words lulled Dean to sleep, and this time he dreamt of kisses, long and sweet and desperate and quick, and hands, slipping and sliding and warm, and he woke to a feeling of comfort before he remembered what was happening in the world, and the wall strengthened again.

+++

After the war ended, Dean moved out of London, into the outskirts of Cork. He bought a small studio, painting his days away and losing track of time, and it was so easy to forget, that way. He produced masterpiece after masterpiece, and he even sold one, two, three, four Ð but when someone wanted to buy the fifth, he said, no, that oneÕs not for sale, and he stopped painting with red paint after that.

He went to church, once in a while, and sat in the back pew, absorbing the sounds and the smells and the words. He thought of Seamus then, his eyes and his smile and his voice and his _everything_ , but he would always leave the service before the thoughts became too strong, because the wall would crumble and everything would fall apart.

He felt as though he was being punished for remembering, when it would happen to him during the service, and sometimes, it was easier to forget.

Sometimes.


End file.
